Lost Boy
by green.pepsi.cola
Summary: Series of short ficlets, beginning with Jay, then Tony, then Stacy. After that, continuations will go in no particular order. Hard to sum up ficlets, you know. Third ficlet, for Stacy, is now up but rather short.
1. Lost Boy: A Jay Adams ficlet

Lost Boy

**Lost Boy**

_I wrote this a while ago and I just can't help myself but to post it. I'm stuck with my ideas on all of my continuing stories, and I'm hoping that soon I'll know where my others are supposed to go. But for now, I'm going to be doing some short little fic-lets. All I own are the ideas._

There's a kid on a surfboard out in front to the no-longer-existent Pacific Ocean Pier, where we learned to surf as kids. He's so intensely concentrated on the waves he's riding that he can't even stop to bandage himself up, he doesn't even care. He's numb and the aching isn't affecting him. He's already go salt in his wounds; he was practically born with ocean water in his blood. His arm has long since ceased bleeding, there's a deep gash in his forehead, and his ankles are scraped raw. Two of his ribs are definitely bruised.

I've watched this kid grow up. I've grown up with him. The dude never ceases to amaze me, no matter what stupid shit he's getting into, and I have to call him the greatest skateboarder I've ever had the opportunity to meet, let alone befriend. After so long, there's only one thing I find strange, and that's his ability to keep a stony composure through harsh circumstances. He doesn't cry. He never cries anymore. Thinking back on him, I can't remember a time when he wasn't goofing off. It didn't matter if he was hurting or not. It was like he had two settings -- hyperactive and angry. You could never really tell what you'd get next with him.

What can I say; the kid's always getting himself in trouble, even since we were small. At fifteen, he's been so close to being arrested twice that I can scarcely believe he's made it to this age. When he was five, he took a lighter from the drugstore, and I, being the sensible seven-year-old I was, bitched him out until he took it back. I figure that's where our trouble started.

When Jay was twelve, he had a thing for this girl, Jessica I think. She was two years older than him, my age, and I don't remember her knowing that he existed. He did everything for that girl, just so she'd maybe take notice of him. He borrowed an Allman Brothers tape from me and the tape player from Skip's shop, Zephyr. He played that track 'Jessica' outside her apartment window for five hours straight. The kid was determined, even after she'd thrown a shoe out into the darkness at him and told him that he was 'too young for her'. I think that was probably the first time he'd ever been so stuck on something that he couldn't sleep. Since then, he's never given up on anything that was important to him, not even stealing a generator so we could drain pools this summer.

I wish Jayboy would get out now and talk to me. But I know he won't, he's so damn stubborn. Sometimes I want to kick him, though I would never actually do it. He gets beat up on enough as it is. So instead I'll just sit here, and watch him through the lens of my camera. I'm sure he'll find some chick later to comfort him in ways I don't even want to imagine. He'd probably try to kill me if I even shared my thought of wanting to hug him. There's just something about Jay that makes me feel so sad. Yet he's the one who inspired me to start filming in the first place. Just him mostly, be's about the only one who'll let me use footage of him as a subject. Everyone else just tells me I'm nuts, to get the fuck out of their faces because filming will never get me anywhere.

So that's what I've been doing for the last hour. Me, Stacy Peralta, filming Jay Adams surf his natural-born heart out. And sitting here watching, I kind of wish I could replace that girl he'll see later.


	2. Promise of Tomorrow: A Tony Alva ficlet

Tomorrow

**Promise of Tomorrow**

_Here's another fic-let for you. This one's not as good as the last, I don't think. It (quite obviously) features Tony Alva as a main character, though it is not outrightly stated._

Her hands, rough and calloused. His hands, smooth and sensitive. Their bodies, entwined. He'll be gone in the morning, she doesn't care. The apartment is cold. They snuggle under the covers, her face buried in his huge mass of curls, tangled, sun-beaten. To him, she's another girl, a one-time fling. A one night stand. Now she matters, but tomorrow, who knows? To her, he's her everything, if only for one night, to herself. Tomorrow she'll be alone, and he'll be who knows where, with someone else. She'll freak out a week later, but she won't be pregnant. Even if she were, it wouldn't keep him around. Maybe they'll meet again, but she'll just be another thoughtless object, someone to get off with.

So for now she holds on tight, clinging to what is left of her sanity, her last shred of hope his arms around her. Discarded clothes litter the room, everywhere. The room swirls with the smoke of forgotten, hand-rolled cigarettes and weed, the smells mingle with the alcohol on their breath, a collective of malt whiskey, Jack Daniels, beer. Something she can't place. His skin smells of cinnamon. Her sense of smell is overloaded, sensitive to the smallest traces of scent. He awakens, jostling her. They're at it again, lips to lips, palm to palm, minds roaming aimlessly. His hands in her dark hair, hers on his stomach. A small clump of dark brown lays on the pillow, her hair is falling out again. The disease she can't get rid of, lupus, hovering in the back of her mind. She can't feel the pain wracking her anymore.

Sanity, scattered like a child's toys in a bedroom, flitters away as he begs with his eyes, and she silently agrees. She knows what he's asking for. She doesn't care anymore; she doesn't want him to leave just yet. She'll do anything to keep him, if only for a bit longer. Seconds, minutes. So she lets him. She feels used, but it's keeping him here for now. Close. She can't get too attached, it won't do any good. She can't let herself feel. To feel would be to acknowledge the existence of a relationship, one she'll never have. His demons keep him emotionally void. She doesn't want to leave this place, but she's wondering if there's life beyond him. They fall asleep again.

She awakens the next morning; what she finds comes as a shock. There he is, holding her, keeping her burrowed in the warmth of the bed. He still smells the same, stale liqueur, smoke, cinnamon, comforting. The smells of the night linger, hovering like ghosts. Outside it is perfectly clear, bright and early. She smiles to herself, amazed. He sighs, she sighs. She turns over, brushes his face. His eye, his lips, his cheek. For once, he stayed. It seems a miracle in the making has chosen her on whom to present itself. She thinks maybe, just maybe, this time he'll stay.

And he does. Some may have called it fate. She, however, attributed it to good fortune and maybe some choice waves.


	3. Silence: A Stacy Peralta ficlet

Silence

**Silence**

A/N: See others for disclaimer notice.

His wet hair dripped with seawater, stringy and blonde. He lived for the water, for surfing. For freedom. He sat on his board, surveying the dying waves in the mid-morning sun; he'd been here since five AM. He was probably late for school; definitely late for school. Maybe he was destined to skip school today; no, he was just destined to be late, he decided as he clambered out of the ocean. The sand was hot beneath is feet.

Twenty minutes later he jumped off of his bike, now fully clothed, yanking a small yellow comb through his long, sun-bleached hair unsuccessfully. He slunk into the attendance office, keeping his head down.

"You're late, Peralta. Again. And I don't suppose you have any sort of note."

He didn't seem to hear her. The secretary didn't particularly like him or the kids he hung out with, but she felt sorry for him sometimes. The boy just never seemed to be running on time to her. She sighed, looking at his crestfallen face for a few moments.

"Get to class, Stacy."

She nodded toward the hallway, handing him a pink pass. Stacy said nothing, walked out into the hall.

Some girls giggled at him as they passed, headed toward the restroom. Stacy was always late, except when he was going to work. People assumed that he was always on time since he wore a watch half of the time, but he really only looked at it to see if he was late to the Noodle Company, and that was never until after three o'clock. You'd never know that he was going deaf, you'd never tell. His friends could tell. They wouldn't believe it, he wouldn't acknowledge it. It worked out well.

Sitting in calculus, Stacy made the amazing discovery that his skipping of breakfast, followed by a nearly brutal surfing session before school, was making him increasingly hungry. He regretted this as his stomach protested loudly, to the amusement of the girl sitting next to him.

"Having a problem there? You really should eat breakfast, you know." She giggled, smiling fakely in an attempt to flirt with the blue eyed boy.

He wasn't in the mood for it. Therefore, he proceeded to ignore her and suddenly seemed very interested in his blank paper. Then he remembered that he'd forgotten to brush his teeth this morning, and that his breath was probably horrendous, which made him even less compelled to come up with a sarcastic remark.

After calculus was lunch, Stacy recalled just as he discovered that he had no money for it. This disappointed him greatly, given his now extreme urge to eat as much as he could get his hands on.

The rest of the day was a disaster. Stacy arrived home at midnight, burned out from working an eight-hour shift at Venice Noodle. He crashed onto his bed, ready and willing to sleep. He had nearly succeeded when there was a greatly disturbing knock upon his window that even he heard clearly, and was sure that his parents could have possibly heard. If they hadn't been so preoccupied by sleeping (his mother) and watching television (his father). He stood groggily from his bed and slouched over to the window, hair sticking out in every direction. He opened the glass, rubbing his eyes gingerly as Sid tumbled in. Stacy recalled that he hadn't had a screen in his window for the past five years as Sid smacked his head against the dresser.

"I told you not to lean against the window after you knocked…" Stacy murmured.

"Yeah, right. I forgot. Wake up man, one of the big houses in Santa Monica is on fire. Dude, you have to come see this. Can you believe it - they did it for insurance money! They're standing outside in fancy clothes, there's no way it started accidentally. You gonna come with?" Sid rambled, climbing back out thorough the window.

"What? Oh, I guess." Stacy answered pointlessly, as Sid was already standing outside the window, tapping his foot impatiently. Stacy grabbed his skateboard and clumsily extracted himself from his window, board first, as he did almost every morning, and followed Sid to the street. The younger boy was not very good at skating, he had a balance problem, and Stacy always felt that he needed to go slower so Sid could keep up. He imagined that it was hard, not being as good as his friends at something they all loved so much. It made him wonder what it would feel like if he went completely deaf. His father was hard of hearing, so he didn't exactly know if genes had any effect on his hearing loss, or if it was because of environmental factors.

Nevertheless, as he skated toward his nightly dose of excitement, he had no trouble forgetting the fact that his hearing was getting worse, or occupying himself with having a conversation with one of his friends.

_Fin._


End file.
